


Heaven Stood Open

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Ghosts, M/M, Multi, Spirits, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis attend a wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Stood Open

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Barricade Day. Originally intended as fluff since a lot of Barricade Day things can err on the side of being heavy, but, well, instead it turned into this.
> 
> Whoops.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Enjolras’s fingers fumbled slightly with his cravat and he cursed under his breath, tempted to tear the entire thing away from his neck and go bare-throated. Surely that would get a rise out of the attendees, and while on the one hand he desperately wanted said reaction from what would undoubtedly be a party filled with the bourgeois society people he was sworn to overthrow, he also remembered the promise that he had made. Sighing, he undid his cravat to start the knot over.

Suddenly, hands reached carefully around from behind to tie the knot for him, and he raised his eyebrow at Grantaire over his shoulder in his looking glass. “You looked as if you were having difficulty,” Grantaire told him quietly, his fingers, normally clasped around the neck of a bottle, deftly tying the perfect knot, and he rested his hands briefly on Enjolras’s shoulders before taking a step back.

Enjolras turned to face him and tried to smile, though it came out far more like a grimace. “Thank you,” he said, feeling as if the words were oddly formal, though perhaps that was far more due to what had passed between he and Grantaire, seemingly recently and so long ago, than the words themselves. “I am occasionally quite useless when it comes to the latest fashions.”

“And yet the red jacket will cut a dashing figure among the guests tonight,” Grantaire said lightly, smirking when Enjolras made a face. “Do cheer up, would you? It is a wedding, and yet judging by the face you are making, one would think it was a funeral we are set to attend.”

“It may as well be a funeral,” Enjolras sneered, though it was without much conviction. “A funeral where our ideals shall go to die. Why else must we be forced to attend such a frivolous event when there is work ever to be done, especially since Courfeyrac has expressly forbid me from, and I quote, ‘rabble-rousing’.”

Grantaire chuckled and shook his head. “And for very good reason,” he said, arching an eyebrow at Enjolras. “It is his duty as best man to ensure that you do not do anything to jeopardize the wedding, and that includes proselytizing the wedding guests.”

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “And if I cannot even be allowed to be free in my beliefs, then why should I even bother attending?”

“Because we were invited,” Grantaire said lightly. “And so in addition to this most dashing jacket and now perfectly tied cravat, you will put on your most cheerful smile and attend without complaint until such a time as we are ready to leave or I have had my fill of champagne, whichever comes first, and you know well my capacity for champagne.”

Though Enjolras’s tried to continue scowling, a smile twitched at the corners of his lips, and Grantaire smiled at him and leaned in to kiss the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “I shall accept that for the moment.” He hesitated before reaching for Enjolras’s hand, his smile widening when Enjolras laced their fingers together firmly. “Now we are ready.”

“Or as ready as I’ll ever be,” Enjolras sighed, but he allowed Grantaire to tug him towards the door.

* * *

 

“I’ve a hole in my shirt,” Bossuet said mournfully, wiggling his finger through the hole in the front of his shirt and frowning at Joly, who was buttoning his waistcoat with nimble fingers. “I don’t know if I can go with a hole in my shirt, and it is far too late now to change.”

Joly frowned critically at him. “Your waistcoat should hide it, if you could be bothered to put it on. You can no more go with a hole in your shirt than in just your shirtsleeves. And where has your cravat disappeared to?” When Bossuet just gave Joly a long-suffering look, Joly sighed and shook his head. “You may borrow one of mine. Again.”

He quickly tied it around Bossuet’s neck before turning to the looking glass to tie his own. Bossuet stood and shrugged his waistcoat on, asking Joly, “Is Musichetta meeting us there?”

“Don’t be silly,” Joly laughed, though it seemed slightly forced. “She has far more important things to do than attend the wedding of some society gentleman that she never once met. We can no more force her to attend than tie her down in matrimony herself.”

Bossuet laughed and slipped his arms around Joly’s waist. “You would not see her wed either, do not lie. Not unless the laws were changed and we could both say our marriage vows with her.”

Joly smiled and turned his head to kiss Bossuet. “I’ll not deny it. Perhaps with the new order that will be put in place, there shall be room enough for sharing, even when it comes to the marriage bed. And in the interim, so long as we are happy together, the law can remain firmly your purview.”

“Fair is fair,” Bossuet said easily, taking a step back. “And now we should away, so as to not be late.”

Frowning, Joly reminded him, “The wedding is not for a few hours yet.”

Bossuet just looked at him. “Need I remind you with whom you are traveling?”

“The point is well taken,” Joly said, smiling. “Let us go fetch the carriage, then.”

* * *

 

“What think you?” Bahorel asked, smoothing the front of his waistcoat as he admired his reflection. “I am told this is the height of fashion.

Prouvaire looked at it with a critical eye, adjusting the turban he had painstakingly wrapped around his forehead, which somehow was a different color yet from the several to be found in the floral pattern of his own waistcoat. “The color makes you looked peaked.”

Bahorel made a face at him. “You only say that because you wish you could pull off this particular share of green, but it goes not with your complexion, or your hair.” He paused before adding, “Or your turban.”

“But the turban completes the ensemble, does it not?” Prouvaire asked, though not anxiously — in truth, Bahorel’s response would make little difference, as Prouvaire had been studying the Arabs and saw no reason not to wear a turban to a wedding.

Bahorel considered him for a long moment before declaring solemnly, “I suppose you shall do. Really it is a pair of fine trousers that you lack, but alas, at this late hour this is naught to be done about that.”

Prouvaire shook his head. “Is your mistress so concerned with trousers? Many a time have I heard you espouse their virtues, and yet the maids I have met seem more concerned with what is in a man’s trousers than the material from which they’re made.”

“Perhaps what is in my trousers is so well known that my mistress need not be concerned with it,” Bahorel said smugly, winking at Prouvaire, who shook his head fondly as he rolled his eyes. “in truth we are two dashing gentlemen, and I rather suspect that the ladies shall swoon upon seeing us.”

Laughing, Prouvaire took Bahorel’s arm and struck a gallant pose. “Oh yes,” he agreed. “Swoon indeed they shall if they were to behold us.”

* * *

 

“Feuilly!” Combeferre called, walking faster to meet up with Feuilly, who paused to wait for him. “How are you, mon ami? Prepared for this wedding?”

Feuilly shrugged, looking slightly apprehensive. “I must admit it is my first wedding of this type, and I am not entirely sure I should have been invited, but I am here.” He paused for a moment before adding, a little apprehensively, “I did not bring a wedding gift. I had thought of making a fan but…”

He trailed off, and Combeferre nodded in understanding. “I do not think the happy couple will notice, to be frank,” he told Feuilly. “Our presence is gift enough on a day like today. I doubt any remembered a wedding gift — we are not oft invited to events of this ilk, and the expectations of propriety are not much remembered by our friends in any case. Indeed, many of our number will scoff at the tradition.”

“But not you?” Feuilly asked, glancing sideways at Combeferre, who shrugged.

“I am not one to dismiss things out of hand, and tradition has its uses. Certainly the mindset that it is how things have always been done is harmful to creativity, and thus to progress, None should be mindless in how one approaches tradition, just as none should be mindless in how one approaches anything. But a tradition such as this, with the way things have been…” He shrugged again. “Some gaiety does not seem remiss.”  

Feuilly shrugged as well and smiled. “Then let us be gay. And on your head be the consequences.”

Combeferre laughed. “Indeed. On my head be it.”

* * *

 

Marius stood in front of his looking glass, staring at himself. His hair was nearly perfectly coiffed and perfumed as befitted the day. His scars could barely be seen, and even if they could, on this day of all, none would make mention of them. In fact, none would make mention of his appearance in general, so radiant would Cosette look at his side. He would not behold her until the last possible moment, taking separate coaches to the ceremony, and he could not wait.

But for the moment, he was alone, his grandfather giving him space until the moment they must leave, and yet here, space was not needed. Space left time for Marius to brood, and time for him to focus on what — and who — would not be at his wedding that day.

He could feel a wordless cry working its way up his throat and turned away from his looking glass, sinking into his chair, his head in his hands. Courfeyrac was swift to kneel in front of Marius, resting his hands lightly on Marius’s knees. “My friend,” he said gently. “Why this sudden display of emotion? Certainly if you weep with happiness, I will not judge — I have not yet said my marriage vows or even come close and cannot guess what passes through a man’s heart on that day — but if these are tears of sorrow, you must desist. This is your wedding day, a day of celebration!”

Marius shook his head slowly. “I feel as if I am one of the maskers celebrating Shrove Tuesday,” he murmured quietly. “A smile painted on my face and my heart more broken than I am allowed to be.”

He hid his face in his hands, and Courfeyrac clucked his tongue sympathetically. “I know why you are grieved, but is not the joyous occasion for which we find ourselves gathered enough to put the grief from your heart and from your mind today?” Marius was silent and Courfeyrac sighed. “Come, my friend, put a smile on your face. Must I embarrass you with tales from when you lived with me and our adventures? You’ve tried to put them from your memory, I know you have, but my memory is long and the potential for embarrassment high. I’ve not yet planned my best man speech, after all…”

Marius slowly lifted his head from his hands, managing a small smile. “Being foolish,” he muttered. “There is so much to be excited on, this day of all days.”

He stood and returned to his looking glass, smoothing his hair again, and Courfeyrac stood as well, beaming at him. “As I told you so. Your happiness shall be overflowing today, and better to overflow with happiness than with tears.”

Marius smiled tentatively at his reflection and smoothed the front of his jacket. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Indeed.”

* * *

 

The ceremony was perfect, the feast exquisite, and after many well-wishes and congratulations, Marius and Cosette found themselves a moment alone, and Cosette pressed Marius’s hand, a small smile on her face. “This day has been a whirlwind,” she said quietly.

“A whirlwind of joy,” Marius replied, smiling widely at her.

Cosette looked at him closely, her eyes keen to see that which Marius longed to conceal. “And yet it is not all joy with you, my love, is it?”

Marius sighed and shook his head. “On this day of all days, it should be, and I wish in my heart that it was. But alas…” He paused, and when he spoke next, his voice was quieter, and ragged. “Sometimes I miss them so much that I imagine them as if they were here.” There was no need for him to say of whom he spoke; Cosette knew — if not in detail, she knew enough. “I can see them, clear as day. Bahorel and his mistress, Jehan by the flower arrangements with Combeferre, discussing God only knows what. Feuilly lingering by the food, Joly and Bossuet flirting outrageously with one of the young ladies, Grantaire trying to convince Enjolras to dance with him, and Courfeyrac—”

Here Marius’s voice broke, and Cosette reached out to cup his cheek, her eyes searching his, concerned. “Courfeyrac would be right here next to me,” Marius whispered. “Asking me what in the world I was doing, being miserable on my own wedding day. And he would tell me that if I did not dance with you it was his solemn duty to do so.”

“And he would take me out on the dance floor,” Cosette continued steadily, when it was clear Marius could not go on. “And I’ve no doubt he would be an excellent dancer, if a bit ostentatious, and I would look constantly back at you, begging you to rescue me. And you would laugh as you cut in, and he would kiss my hand before releasing me.” She stroked his cheek gently. “You are not wrong to imagine them, especially him. They were an important part of your life, and I wish more than anything that they could be here, especially Courfeyrac.” She paused before adding, in an even gentler tone, “And I believe that they are here, in spirit at least. And I believe that your friends would want you to prove them wrong, Courfeyrac especially. We cannot let Enjolras and Grantaire show us up, after all.”

Cosette grabbed Marius’s hand and squeezed it, and Marius managed a small smile. “No,” he said, “that we cannot.” And he followed her out to the dancefloor.

* * *

 

Cosette did not know if the dead lingered, if ghosts could hear when their names were invoked, but she surmised that if the Saints could answer one’s prayer, it was possible that the dead could too listen. So later, she stepped outside the hall, longing for a bit of fresh air away from the mass of people. She rested against the window frame in the hallway, closing her eyes at the unseasonably warm breeze blowing through the open window, smiling slightly when it seemed to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll take care of him, you know,” she said quietly. “From now until the end of my days, I will look after him. You do not have to.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac told her, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “You will, and he will love you all the more for it.”

“I wish you could be here to see him one last time, to say your goodbyes in the proper fashion,” Cosette continued, her eyes still closed. “Just as I wish your faces did not haunt his dreams. I wish there was no unmarked paupers’ grave that Marius stumbles to in his darker moments. I wish you lived still, but most of all, I wish that Marius did not wish that he had died.”

Courfeyrac closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “None of us wish that,” he whispered. “We are happier than words can explain that he lives, and happier still you are together, bound now for eternity.” He hesitated before adding, “I will leave him in your capable hands, not only because I have no other option but because I trust you to do for him what he needs.”

He reached out as if to touch her cheek, though his hand could no more touch her than it could touch Marius earlier. “He grieves for us,” he said softly. “But he is happy because of you, and your love for him will ensure that happiness grows and that the grief fades.”

Marius appeared at the doorway to the hall and called, “Cosette? Need you a moment alone?”

Cosette opened her eyes and turned to him, smiling. “No. I have taken all the moments that I need alone, and now I need only you.”

She crossed to Marius and took his hand, and together they went back into the hall, leaving the hallway behind them empty.

* * *

 

“Have you yet drunk your fill?” Enjolras asked curtly, appearing at Grantaire’s shoulders, though as before a small smile tugged at his lips.

Grantaire heaved a sigh and looked mournfully at where the champagne and wine still flowed. “Alas, the champagne has been drunk in great quantity, if not by me. I fear I shall never taste champagne again, and do not know if I have even tasted a vintage as good as what they have served here.” He sighed again and turned away from the champagne, smiling up at Enjolras. “I am ready to leave. Many of our friends, I believe, already have, and we should join them.”

Enjolras nodded. “I am certainly not eager to remain here,” he grumbled, casting his gaze around haughtily. Then his expression fell slightly. “But the good we could have done…”

“It will be done,” Grantaire said softly. “If not by our hands and blood, then by our ideals, instilled in the minds of the people who witnessed our fall. They did not rise then, but they will rise in the future. You have lit a fire in their souls that will not be put out.”

Glancing at Grantaire, almost surprised, Enjolras said firmly, “ _We_  have lit a fire.” He paused nodded slowly. “But you are correct. We must away — we have done what we could and now it is ours to watch over.” He turned to Grantaire and hesitated, holding out his hand. “Do you permit it?”

Grantaire just smiled and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “You know you’ve never needed to ask my permission. All of me has always been yours, now and for eternity.”

Together, they left the wedding hall, left Marius and Cosette to their own eternity, left to sleep together among the stars and their friends. 


End file.
